


Malo Tebya

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Facials, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Submission, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After discovering Thranduil’s other toy, Legolas can’t help but wish to be included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malo Tebya

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for lunarlumina’s “Legolas discovered Meludir's secret when he once spyed upon him and his adar in the Baths making love. Turned on by this knowledge, he is determined to join them” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The road to his father’s chambers is a long one. His steps are an unusually slow, slower each time he passes a guard, and his head keeps threatening to hang. Fear isn’t common to Legolas, but he can’t help but worry that someone he knows will look into his eyes and see all his sins, all these horrors laid bare. It was one thing when they were mere fantasies in the dead of night, never breathed aloud. It’s another now that he’s acting on them, following the familiar path he hasn’t taken in decades. 

He’s been thinking of this for a fortnight. It took that long to talk himself into it, but that’s where it started. He accidentally walked into his and his father’s private bathing chamber below the castle, only to find the room already twice occupied. Thranduil was in the circular basin filled with river water, and another elf sat in his lap, riding his cock with such vigor that the poor thing couldn’t seem to stop even at Legolas’ intrusion. 

Legolas saw everything. He saw Meludir’s body, the lithe line of his spine and the round curve of his ass, the pinkness of his spread thighs and the haired slit split open around Thranduil’s cock. He saw his father’s strong chest, broad shoulders, pink nipples, tight stomach. The image has haunted him ever since. Worse still was the look on his father’s face: pure arousal. Still commanding. Power, sex. With a flick of his hand, Thranduil dismissed his son, and Legolas slunk away back into the murk of his own mind. 

He hasn’t joined the guard since. He used to quite often, though he has no such duties—Tauriel is simply a good friend, and Legolas enjoys the practice hunting amongst them. But Meludir serves under her, with an innocent face and sweet smile, and a body fit to pleasure a king. Legolas always thought him cute but otherwise paid him little mind; his skills with a bow aren’t particularly noteworthy. Yet now, whenever Legolas passes Meludir in the halls, all he can think is that Meludir is his father’s _plaything_ , and that makes the young archer utterly intoxicating. 

So Legolas has two elves he’s painfully attracted to yet can do nothing about. He can’t have his father. He can’t have his father’s pet. He stops outside his father’s door anyway, tense with anticipation. 

He doesn’t knock. Perhaps he hopes to walk in on another scene, but the grand bedroom on the other side is empty. Legolas doesn’t check the adjacent rooms. He stands before the large bed, adorned with intricately carved wooden posts and an elaborate headboard, and he wonders how long it’s been since he stood on this floor. Too long. They’ve grown far too far apart, though perhaps it’s his own fault; he looks away when his father sees his eyes. He feels disgusting enough without that judgment. He’s still standing here. 

They need to talk. That’s all the plan he has. It isn’t a very good one, but he’s sure there is no right way to go about this. He’ll simply have to speak his mind and face the consequences, lest his own thoughts consume him and chip away at his soul until nothing’s left. 

He walks around the side of the bed, intending to perch on the edge, when his eyes catch a flicker of silver around the left bedpost. He comes closer, bending down and pushing the white pillows aside. There’s a thin, glittering chain tied securely around it, and Legolas can’t help but pick it up, slowly drawing the long leash along his palm. It trails subtly down below the bed, disappearing into shadow. It’s pulled into the light under Legolas’ curious fingers, until a stiff collar is visible at the end. 

Legolas pulls that up, too, his fingers tracing the cold edge. It’s ingrained with a twisting design, like many of Thranduil’s jewelry. It shimmers, grey-white in the pale light of the moon and stars above, the ceiling only weaved together branches that let the night through. Legolas has only thought of such proclivities once or twice, but he isn’t surprised to find them in his father’s wake. What he is surprised at is how difficult it is to put the collar down. 

Thranduil has Meludir wear this, most likely. Or whatever toy he has at the time—Meludir is very young and couldn’t have been serving Thranduil for long. Fingering the clasp where the chain locks into a loop at the front, Legolas bites down a swell of _jealousy_. He isn’t sure which of them it’s for—Thranduil, marking such a pretty thing, or Meludir, wearing such a mark. Legolas finds the thin seam where the collar parts, and he slowly pries it open. 

His breath hitches. His neck would fit in it as easily as Meludir’s. He sadly teases himself with the thought that if he were chained to his father’s bed, it would be far more difficult for Thranduil to immediately toss him out. 

He shouldn’t do so in his tunic, anyway. His fabric is too rough for it, and he doubts Meludir would remain clothed. He certainly hadn’t meant to come to his father’s room and strip, but if he’s going to play the game, he knows his only chance is to play it well. 

He lays the collar in his lap, the chain draping delicately over his thigh, and he pulls his tunic over his head before he can change his mind. Then he folds it and puts it on the dresser, kicking off his sandals as an afterthought—it wouldn’t do to have them on the bed. When he returns, he sits gingerly beside the pillows. He lifts the collar to his neck, takes a deep breath, and snaps it shut. 

He half expects to hear the click of a lock, but none comes. Surely there is one, but Legolas doesn’t feel around to find it. He’s crossed far enough over the line. He sits, taut and ready, breathing hard from nerves. He crosses his legs, tights still on because he has _some_ shame, and he drapes his arms over his knees. Then he stares at the door and waits. 

Only a few minutes pass before it opens. He tenses instantly, frantically rethinking this—it was foolish—he should leave—but the elf that sweeps inside isn’t his father. 

Meludir, wearingly only a long, thin silver gown, steps around the corner and closes the door behind him. Even as he does so, his eyes widen, his mouth falling open in obvious surprise. His cheeks turn even pinker than Legolas’ feel. Embarrassment doesn’t begin to describe what Legolas feels, but he schools himself quickly into control. He’s still Meludir’s prince; he still has that power. Meludir is the one who quickly bows his head, honey-orange hair tumbling smoothly over his shoulder, eyes downcast and arms stiff at his sides. He greets nervously, “My lord.”

Legolas responds, “Meludir.” His voice is almost equally unsteady. Meludir doesn’t straighten again. When it becomes clear that nothing will happen until Legolas ordains it, he asks, as neutrally as he can, “What are you doing here?”

“It... it is my night to please my lord Thranduil in his bed,” Meludir answers a tad thickly. The mere notion irks Legolas. He imagines Meludir doesn’t feel much better about having to answer to his lover’s son. 

But Legolas doesn’t have the right to send Meludir away. He’s not sure he wants to. Meludir looks particularly pretty in his tight-fitting gown, clearly meant for swift removal. His face is soft, cheeks flushed, hair neatly combs and free of any braids—good for running one’s fingers through. He looks the picture of a royal plaything, and it gives Legolas more pause than ever— _he_ should’ve thought of these things. He should’ve come in something more tempting and prepared his hair. Even so, he couldn’t have made himself so subservient, which is likely what Thranduil likes in a lover. 

Pondering this, Legolas fidgets on the bed. There’s still time to run—apparently, Meludir is accustomed to arriving first and preparing for his master. Legolas may have usurped that, or he may have missed the mark. For all he knows, Thranduil is the one to wear the collar, though Legolas very much doubts it. 

He wipes a tongue over his lips, hesitates, and dares to ask, “What would you do?”

Meludir’s head lifts up, his big eyes and cute lips the picture of innocence. “My lord?”

“For my father,” Legolas elaborates, the shame twisting deeper inside him, but it’s too late now. He has a chance here to learn what his father likes, and if he’s going to compete for such interest, he’ll need to know all he can. Meludir bites his plush lip, eyebrows knitting together. He looks unsure.

Still, he tentatively mumbles, “I... I would strip myself of all things.” His eyes fall to Legolas’ lap, where the thin green fabric still covers his skin. Blushing all the harder, Meludir darts up again and adds, “Then I would wear my king’s collar.”

Legolas nods slowly. He’d guessed as much, though he let his pride weigh him down. He knows now he’ll have to go the distance. His hands withdraw from his knees, thumbs hooking into his waistband, and he thinks of sending Meludir away. But surely this isn’t the extent of Thranduil’s preferences. Instead, Legolas says, not quite a question and yet not quite an order, “Strip.”

Meludir doesn’t hesitate. His arms disappear behind his back, likely drawing loose strings, and a second later, the clean fabric is falling from his shoulders. It slides right down his body like water, until he’s stepping free, completely nude. His body is just as Legolas remembers and has recalled almost every night since. Meludir is young, beautiful, lithe and fair and soft, the way elves are told of in stories. He’s the pinnacle of all their peoples’ ideals, except that his smile is almost _too_ cheerful, too sweet, for the mystique their realm holds. Between his legs, he has a small patch of short golden-red curls above pink lips. Watching him, there’s a brief moment where Legolas forgets why he’s here—he wants _this_ elf—this elf would do quite nicely—if only he could stroll over and pin Meludir against the wall, claim him thoroughly. Legolas has to remind himself that Meludir is already owned by a man that both of them adore and could never truly escape from. 

With Meludir bare, it’s easier for Legolas to lift up on his knees and push his own tights down his thighs. He squirms out of them as gracefully as he can, folds them, and adds them to the pile with his tunic, while Meludir deposits his gown elsewhere. Settling back into place, Legolas asks, “Like this?”

Meludir bites into his bottom lip again. This time, he chews it lightly, worrying it as his eyes sweep over each part of Legolas, carefully avoiding Legolas’ crotch. He needn’t do so; Legolas is proud of his body, and he’s ogled Meludir enough. He can’t help but wonder how he would compare to his father. He only saw glances of his father’s cock in the bathing chambers—does he match the one that sired him? Do they have a similar curve, a similar shape? Is he much smaller? He’s just about to ask when Meludir admits sheepishly, “Ah... no, my lord. The king prefers the clip to attach to the front, so that he may see plainly how you are chained for him.”

Glancing down, Legolas grips the collar. He turns it so that the chain drapes over his shoulder instead of down the back, but as he does so, Meludir takes a step closer, asking timidly, “May I...?”

Legolas nods. He’s still fingering the collar when Meludir slips onto the bed, crawling on hands and knees to come to Legolas’ front. He adjusts the collar lightly, so that the ring that holds the leash is centered and just above his collarbone. His fingers trace along the chain and draw it over so that it drapes down Legolas’ chest, curving away before it can reach his stomach. Then Meludir draws back again to observe him, nodding lightly in approval. 

This close, Legolas can smell the alluring scents of the forest clinging to Meludir’s flesh, and his own natural musk beneath it. Legolas asks, “What next?”

“I would display myself for my king.” Finally looking down, a flicker of lust washes over Meludir’s pretty face, his eyes tracing the length of Legolas’ semi-hard cock. It’s impossible to be flaccid with Meludir naked before him. “He is a busy man and may have other duties before he wishes to play with me, but his favourite parts of me should always be bared for his observation. I hold myself at the ready until I am honoured with my king’s touch.” Legolas thinks he understands. 

He straightens up, squaring his shoulders, but Meludir mumbles, “Ah... no.” Legolas lifts an eyebrow, and Meludir bows his head. He doesn’t offer the correct way.

So Legolas asks, “Will you show me?”

Meludir smiles. Those are what make him his most beautiful, and the lack of judgment in it makes him more so to Legolas. He turns, facing the door, and he shuffles back so that his spine presses against Legolas’ chest, Legolas’ thighs parting to fit him. Legolas looks over Meludir’s round shoulder at the way his legs open, knees bent back, ready to lift up if there should be a need to crawl. Meludir dips his hands between his legs, smoothing over his thighs, spreading them as wide as he can to show off his pussy, which looks a brighter pink than before, as though Meludir’s arousal has pooled in it. He runs his hands behind himself and onto the bed, as though they’ve been tied out of the way. His chest arches forward, his ripe nipples perked in the open air. He murmurs quietly, “If my lord should rearrange me, I will move accordingly. He will want to see my desire, but all I desire is his pleasure.”

A shiver runs down Legolas’ body. There’s very little he wouldn’t do for a servant so devoted as this, so full of fresh lust. Thranduil is a lucky man. Yet Legolas knows it’s well deserved. Thranduil does inspire such adoration. As Legolas wraps an arm around Meludir’s stomach to tether them together, he shifts his legs along Meludir’s, trying to emulate the position. He watches Meludir, but he thinks of Thranduil, of waiting in this bed with his body on display, offered to his king. It’s no wonder that Meludir arrives early.

Legolas may have just gotten the idea of it. Meludir glances back over his shoulder, and his hand reaches to trace Legolas’ hip, hesitant, but clearly trying to help, guiding it into place. Legolas’ cock is now flush against Meludir’s taut ass, warm and tantalizingly soft. He runs his hand over Meludir’s chest, fingers coming to tweak one nipple thoughtfully—his own haven’t hardened this way; his father’s chambers aren’t quite cold enough. Meludir whispers, wanton, “I am aroused for my king. The mere thought of him readies me. And to see my prince...” He cuts off, breathy, but Legolas is nonetheless impressed. The idea that _he_ could inspire such profound want is invigorating. He brushes some of the hair over Meludir’s shoulder, wondering if he dares to lay a kiss on Meludir’s neck. 

The door opens before he can. Both of them look up sharply. Thranduil steps inside, grand and regal with his autumn crown still upon his head, his silver robes glittering in the light of the stars. While Legolas and Meludir freeze, Thranduil lifts a dark eyebrow, his hand absently closing the wooden door behind them. 

He asks, voice deep and perhaps cold, “What is this?”

Legolas has no answer. He feels suddenly, horribly foolish; this isn’t at all what he meant to show, yet it’s his own fault for falling into Meludir’s beauty. In his arms, Meludir hangs his head, gushing quickly, “I apologize, my lord.” He doesn’t even say for what, because that isn’t clear. There are too many sins to explain at once. 

Thranduil ignores him. Looking straight at Legolas’, whose own naked body is covered by Meludir’s, Thranduil sternly asks, “Have you taken an interest in my toy, my leaf? Surely you are charming enough to find your own.”

Legolas doesn’t know what to say. The familiar nickname feels like a scolding, and yet it makes his want spike all the greater. While Legolas is fumbling for a response, Thranduil removes his crown, placing it aside on an open pedestal designed simply for that. When he turns back to the bed, Legolas manages a quiet, “I am sorry, Ada.”

At first, Thranduil doesn’t answer. Then he walks towards the bed, calm and cool as ever, his elegant robes dragging wistfully behind him. He walks around the side of the bed and comes right before Legolas, before bending down, his hand reaching out. His index finger presses beneath Legolas’ chin, tilting it up. Legolas looks away. He can feel Thranduil’s eyes along his throat. Thranduil asks, gentler, “Why do you wear this?” Before Legolas can answer, Thranduil’s hand drifts to Meludir’s neck, locking around it, devoid of its proper decoration. “And why did you think it appropriate to steal Meludir from my bed, of all places?”

Here, Legolas has to explain, “I was not trying to steal him.” Thranduil looks back at him, one dark brow lifting again. Legolas says no more. 

A flicker of understanding crosses Thranduil’s face, all the same. A smirk slowly twists its way onto his lips. While he idly clutches Meludir’s throat, Thranduil purrs, “Are you presenting yourself to me, ion nîn?”

Legolas shivers. He has no hope of lying to his father; his fate’s sealed. He nods and closes his eyes, waiting to be scolded. He can only hope that’s the brunt of it. He can still feel Meludir in his arms—there’s no point letting go now. And he can sense that Thranduil is still stroking Meludir. 

To Meludir, Thranduil asks, “How do you feel about this?”

Meludir answers, sheepish but bright, “He is very handsome, my lord.”

“Does that mean you would wish to ride him?”

Legolas’ eyes flicker open. He truly had no intention of taking Meludir in his father’s place, and he means to say so, but Thranduil seems to see the worry in his face and lifts a hand, silencing him. Meludir mumbles demurely, “I am my king’s humble servant.” Thranduil grins, evidently pleased, though it doesn’t answer the question.

So Thranduil cups his chin and tilts him up, connecting their eyes to say, “Your king would have you do nothing you did not wish. Now, I ask you plainly; would you wish to ride my son?”

Meludir’s breath hitches. His eyes are already hazy, full of desire, and he looks at Thranduil with such complete devotion that it’s a wonder he isn’t on his knees licking his master’s boots. He practically moans, “I would very much enjoy being used by Prince Legolas. ...And his magnificent father.”

Thranduil’s smirk grows. He bends to reward Meludir with a peck to the forehead, and then he straightens, glancing back as he pulls out of his sandals. When he climbs onto the bed, he still wears all his robes and reaches taller than both Legolas and Meludir. Even without his crown, he looks very much a _king_. Legolas can hardly believe that this is happening. He might’ve dreamt of being in his father’s arms, but he’ll happily settle for sharing Meludir between them. It might be as close as he ever gets. He’s still naked in his father’s bed, wearing his father’s collar, and he still enjoys the sight of Thranduil, relaxed and amused. Thranduil comes right up between Meludir’s legs. 

He drawls on the way, “It is not yet time for me to retire. However, I believe I could use a short round before I enjoy the full extent of my new present.” His eyes flicker over Meludir’s shoulder, catching Legolas’ gaze and making it very clear just what he means. _Legolas_ is the present. He feels suddenly faint and broiling hot. He should’ve done this sooner. 

Thranduil’s long robes have a seam in the middle, and with a diminutive click, he easily pulls them apart. Even the smallest peek at his chest makes Legolas have to stifle a moan, and he can feel Meludir arching automatically forward. Thranduil casually unclasps more and more of his robes, drawing them smoothly open, not bothering to sweep them from his shoulders but still exposing a long line of pale skin. Under Legolas’ mesmerized stare, Thranduil purrs, “Do you like what you see, Legolas?”

Legolas answers, “Yes, Ada.” He wants to say that he’d like _more_ , but he doesn’t dare speak without being spoken to. Even without the order of it, he feels very much at his father’s mercy. Thranduil dominates with such ease, and Legolas has been bowing to him for a long time, just in other ways. Legolas resists the urge to reach forward and _feel_ his father’s body, instead clutching tighter to Meludir. There’s a smattering of trim white-gold hair beneath Thranduil’s navel, trailing into the waistband of his breeches. These he dips four fingers into, pulling out a long, thick cock that makes Legolas’ breath catch. It does remind him of his own, but larger, grander—it makes his mouth water just to look at. 

Holding his impressive shaft, Thranduil rubs the tip along Meludir’s entrance. Legolas leans further over him, trying to see it all. Meludir lets out a small mewling noise, and his lips part, a stray drop of clear juice dribbling along Thranduil’s head. Thranduil chuckles, “Meludir enjoys the view as well.” Meludir gasps, Thranduil’s cock pushing slowly forward. 

The more Meludir takes, the more he keens, the more he arcs his spine, until his head tosses back to Legolas’ shoulder, eyes fluttering closed and lips opening wide. Legolas watches the air between him and Thranduil disappear, until Thranduil must be inside as deep as he can go, and his hand splays across Meludir’s chest, running over his pebbled nipple to his collarbone, up along his throat. Thranduil thumbs the line of Meludir’s jaw, eyeing the expanse of clear flesh before him, and it takes Legolas a moment to realize what’s different; Meludir usually wears a collar. The accessory makes no difference. Meludir still obviously belongs to his king. He still holds his hands near his back as though bound. Where Legolas is holding Meludir, he can feel the faint press of his father’s robes. He wants to move them to bare skin. Thranduil purrs into Meludir’s neck, “Delightful as always.” Meludir gasps, shuddering.

Legolas burns with jealousy, though he isn’t sure who of. He wants his cock sheathed in Meludir’s body, and he wants to house his father’s length. It’s difficult to be this close and only watch, but then Thranduil’s hand drifts from Meludir’s shoulder to Legolas, running along the collar, and Legolas shivers, trying to press closer and sandwiching Meludir all the tighter between them. Then Thranduil’s fingers fall back into Legolas’ hair, fisting tightly and guiding him up. Legolas’ lips part in hope, eyes falling half closed. 

Thranduil _kisses_ him. It’s only chaste, at first: the slight press of his father’s soft lips, warm and commanding. Thranduil’s nose rests alongside his, Thranduil’s palm against his cheek. Legolas’ heart seems to stop—he’s wanted this for _so long_ but never thought he’d truly taste it. Nerves seize him; he doesn’t know what to do, how to make it last, and his fingers lift to clutch at Thranduil’s robes, trying to hold his father near like he’s a frightened child again. Then Thranduil’s tongue slips out to swipe along Legolas’ bottom lip, and Legolas dutifully opens his mouth, allowing his father to slip inside. Thranduil’s tongue is long, broad, talented and searching. It traces each corner of Legolas’ mouth and curls against his own tongue, coaxing it up. Legolas has never been kissed so thoroughly in his life, and he doubts he ever will be again; he _belongs_ to Thranduil now. No one else will be able to touch him this way. 

When Thranduil pulls back, Legolas almost whines, his expression pained. He never wanted it to end. Thranduil merely smirks as though amused by Legolas’ pathetic hurt, and he orders, “Prepare him. We will take my toy together.” Meludir makes a happy noise, his rear squirming against Legolas’ lap. 

It still takes Legolas a moment to understand, and then he’s blushing and hurrying to obey. He glances around for something to use as lubrication, but he sees nothing and Thranduil makes no offers. So Legolas turns his face aside and sticks his fingers into his mouth, the way he only has in the woods, too far from amenities, playing with others raw and natural. Elves are built for such things, yet when Legolas dips his wet hand beneath Meludir’s body, he’s still relieved to find it already moist. Meludir seems to be dribbling around Thranduil’s cock, impossibly wet for his king, and Legolas risks reaching higher, feeling along Meludir’s ass to his parted lips. Legolas runs his fingers along the opening, lightly fingering the base of his father’s cock, though he can’t reach any farther without having to adjust.

He glances at Thranduil’s eyes as he does so, and they darken, but Thranduil says no more. Legolas feels as much as he dares before pulling back, dragging Meludir’s own juices up to the puckered hole of his ass. It seems to flutter under Legolas’ touch, and he runs his index finger around the brim of it before pushing at the middle, trying to squeeze inside. As soon as he pops in, Meludir gasps, squirming. If Thranduil weren’t watching, Legolas would apologize. 

Instead, as he slowly works his finger in and out of Meludir’s tight hole, he asks, voice more shaky than he wants it, “He can take us both...?” it doesn’t seem right that such a small elf should have to endure two cocks at once, though Legolas himself doubts he would mind such a prospect. Meludir moans, his answer plain.

Thranduil asks nonetheless, “Meludir?”

Meludir gasps as Legolas adds a second finger, impatient and rock-hard but trying to be good, to treat this beautiful creature right. Starting to move gently back and forth between them, Meludir moans, “I... I am honoured to feel both... my king and prince... _ahh_.” His tone gives away that he’s more than honoured. He sounds as though he could reach release at any moment. It alleviates any guilt, and when Legolas withdraws his fingers, Meludir whimpers, head ducking forward into the groove of Thranduil’s shoulder.

Thranduil’s restraint is admirable. Legolas doubts he could bury himself inside Meludir and wait to thrust, yet Thranduil looks as collected as ever. It’s Legolas’ own urgency that has him quickly lining up to Meludir’s opened hole, pink and glistening between his cheeks. He grabs them himself, spreading them open to give Legolas a better view, and Legolas pauses, trying to memorize the sight. He’s taken others this way before, but all of those times pale in comparison to _this_ , where he faces such art and devotion whilst under his father’s erotic instruction.

He pushes forward, cries out instantly at the surge of _pleasure_ , and Meludir makes a wild noise like no other. Legolas has to clutch at Meludir’s hips to steady himself, and he starts to drive inside with short, measured thrusts. He keeps meaning to stop, to give Meludir a chance to adjust, but he _can’t_ , and no one asks him to. He gives in to his own desires until he’s buried to the hilt in Meludir’s perfect ass, and he thinks, foolish thought it may seem, that he can _feel_ his father, thick and pulsing beside him, separated by so little flesh. There, Legolas rests, hugging tight against Meludir and ducking over his shoulder, while Meludir trembles almost violently between them. He screams suddenly, his ass clenching around Legolas’ cock, ricocheting another flurry of pleasure. Legolas grunts in surprise, his vision spinning. Meludir does it again and again, still crying out. His whole body has tensed in Legolas’ arms, and then it ends. Meludir’s scream dies into panting, his body burning, and he slumps. 

It takes Legolas a second to realize what’s happened; Meludir’s finished. He half expects Thranduil to scold Meludir, but Thranduil only chuckles and presses a kiss to Meludir’s forehead, drawling, “I am pleased you find my son so thrilling, my pet.” Meludir mewls, pressing his face into Thranduil’s neck and squirming. To Legolas, Thranduil adds, “Do not worry. It is very rare that I do not milk several rounds out of Meludir before I have finished. He has more in him to give.”

Legolas understands completely why Meludir was chosen for such a purpose. After a few seconds, he straightens back out, panting hard and flushed but looking just as aroused as ever, and Thranduil suddenly pushes forward, driving Meludir back against Legolas’ body. Meludir’s breath hitches and Legolas gasps, looking up to find his father arching a challenging eyebrow. Legolas obeys the silent order, shoving Meludir forward again. A look of pleasure passes over Thranduil’s features, and Meludir is passed back again. Legolas falls quickly into step, and together, they form a steady rhythm, slow at first, but with building speed. Meludir is passed between them, sliding halfway down and back to the base of Legolas’ cock, the sound of slapping flesh clapping with every one. Their combined breathing punctuates that symphony, Legolas’ muffled moans and Meludir’s needy cries. Thranduil is the only one silent, though his pleasure is still clear. They fuck Meludir in tandem. Each slide is bliss for Legolas. Meludir is so _tight_ , so _hot_ , squeezing at him constantly and so soft in his arms, velvety around his cock, yet the best part of all is _Thranduil_ , who owns them both. 

It’s easily the most intense sex of Legolas’ life. It’s difficult to hold on, but he wants to last, to impress his father. He doubts he’ll be able to recover as quickly as Meludir, when the feelings are so deep and the buildup has been so thorough. Yet even though he’s trying to hold back, he can’t help but lean over Meludir’s shoulder, whining lewdly, “ _Ada_...”

He isn’t kissed like he wants, but he’s so grateful that he isn’t ignored—Thranduil pets the side of his head, traces his braids and his ear, makes him shiver and groan, wanting, so desperately, to come undone under this man. As Thranduil pulls sweat-slicked blond strands from Legolas’ face and neck, he murmurs, almost a whisper, “How beautiful you are in my collar, my little leaf.” Legolas _moans_ , hot to the core. He didn’t know his father thought that of him, but he’s so pleased to hear it that he can barely see straight. Thranduil’s voice hardens to add, “From now on, you will not hide this beauty from me when you are in my quarters, do you understand?”

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas promises instantly, overwhelmed with the prospect of having this another day. He’d be all too happy to come like Meludir, only in robes that are easily removed. Meludir’s begun to writhe fervently, clearly involved again, riding them as they pound relentlessly into his pliant body. Though they’re both taking him at once, it’s clear that Thranduil’s controlling the brunt of the thrusts, and all Legolas can do is try to match the pace. 

Idly, Thranduil muses, “But you will not don my collar again unless I command it. Tonight, you will be my present. On others, I already have a pet, and you will be my son, until told otherwise.” Legolas nods as best he can. He would happily be anything—a son, a pet, a toy; whatever his father should wish. He feels as wanton and wanting as Meludir; he would be honoured by the slightest touch. 

As if reminded of his current toy, Thranduil turns his face to Meludir’s. Meludir’s chin is bobbing witch each thrust, his fragile body not enough to stand strong under the constant pounding. Thranduil grabs his chin to hold him still and kisses him, full of tongue, while Legolas watches in awe. Meludir’s eyes are so dilated that they’re almost entirely black, his cheeks redder than his hair. He makes a harried noise against Thranduil’s lips, and when Thranduil pulls away again, Meludir comes a second time. Legolas now recognizes the release; the tension of his body, the volume of his cries, the way his ass shudders wildly around Legolas’ cock. It’s these tremours that pull his own out; he can feel his balls tightening, all his need pooling in his stomach. 

Meludir’s barely finished when Legolas follows, screaming himself hoarse and grinding fiercely into Meludir’s rear. His seed bursts to fill Meludir up, slicking around his cock with each slide. Thranduil’s thrusts continue to drive them forward and back. Legolas’ orgasm seems to last a small eternity, with his vision going white and the weight leaving his body, his entire world narrowing down the sensations around his cock and the feeling of his father so close to him. His skin is burning.

He doesn’t realize he’s come down until the thrusts have stopped. He’s finished, too spent to pound into Meludir anymore, and Thranduil is no longer driving them. Meludir’s body is nearly convulsing with his laboured breath, and if he weren’t held up between the two royals, he’d probably topple over. Legolas has to hold onto him when Thranduil moves. 

Thranduil must’ve pulled out of Meludir; Legolas hears the whine and the wet squelching sound. Then Thranduil rises to his feet in the bed, his robes still split open and his proud cock hanging out, jutting hard into the air. He pushes it towards Meludir’s face, and Meludir locks his lips around it, giving the head a wet, open-mouthed kiss and a small suck. Despite his own satiation, Legolas wants to watch his father fuck Meludir’s sweet mouth, but he pulls away too soon. Meludir makes a disappointed sound as though being denied his king’s cock is a grave cruelty. 

Instead, Thranduil points it over Meludir’s shoulder, ordering down, “Kiss it, Legolas.”

Legolas obeys without thought. He leans forward to press his lips to the head of his father’s cock, tasting the slightly salty skin and the slickness of Meludir’s juices around it. He opens his mouth wider, wanting to feel it down his throat, but like Meludir, he’s denied. Thranduil steps back again and takes his length in his hand, giving it a final pump. 

It bursts. A jet of hot, sticky seed splatters Meludir’s face, another coming just as quick to drape over his shoulder, then reaching Legolas. He closes his eyes just in time; it paints him, spraying across his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips, even his forehead and back into his hair. It’s an absurd amount, befitting a king, and each time he has a moment of reprieve, he can hear Meludir’s delighted noises as he gets more. Thranduil thoroughly covers both of them, and Legolas only opens his eyes when he feels the blunt tip pressing against his lips again. He obediently licks it clean, then watches Thranduil give Meludir the same opportunity. Legolas is left with globs of the seed that made him clinging all over his face. He wears it proudly, while Thranduil tucks himself back into his breeches and begins to refasten his robe. 

After he climbs off the bed, Thranduil orders, “Clean one another up with your mouths. I will return shortly.” Legolas’ heart clenches at the thought of his father leaving, but he’s too spent to say anything. Then Meludir wriggles off his cock, and he’s busy gasping. Turning in his arms, Meludir licks a glob of cum off Legolas’ cheek. 

Almost as an afterthought, Thranduil turns back to the bed, taking a step forward. He bends down, his fingers returning to Legolas’ collar and tracing to the back beneath the curtain of Legolas’ hair. A faint clicking sound rings, and Legolas instantly knows what that means; the lock’s now fastened shut. Thranduil traces around the front, grabbing the chain where it meets the collar, and Thranduil jerks Legolas up by it. He uses his thumb to wipe his own seed off Legolas’ bottom lip, and he purrs, “I will enjoy claiming you, ion nîn.” Before Legolas can moan his pleasure, Thranduil is kissing him. It’s only a quick, sweet thing, but it leaves Legolas dizzier than ever. 

When Thranduil’s finished, he lets go of the collar and delicately does a quick comb-through of Legolas’ hair. Then he straightens and leaves, heading across the room to the adjacent wash room. Legolas is left growing hard again with a squirming Meludir in his lap, who starts happily licking at Legolas’ face, and Legolas turns to return the favour.


End file.
